Peter's Pan Shadow
by nieseryjna
Summary: There was once, a magic world. A world in which you were never afraid of darkness. A world in which your destiny shaped your life. It's all changed in time, but some things reminded. AU. WIP
1. Chapter 1

_**Title: Peter's Pan Shadow**_

_**Part One – Peter**_

_**Warnings: AU, minor character death**_

_**Rating: T, YA**_

The stories about shadows were told for millennia. The magic world where man and his shadow worked and lived hand in hand. A world in which you were never afraid of darkness. A world in which your destiny shaped your life.

But the world was changing, the stories were changing, and soon parents told them to their children only as bedtime stories. The monsters under the bed. The chill that goes up your spine in the dark alley.

The knowledge vanished in time, but the shadows remained, and the worlds divided.

**February 1972 - Ithaca, NY**

The winter this year was hard; the snow covered the fields and roads with a thick layer, making it difficult to drive even when plowed. It was snowing again, with the setting sun low on the horizon shining directly in the eyes of the driver. She averted her eyes from the road only for a second, to glance at her sleeping son in the back seat. It was all it took, a second of averted attention, to lose control on the ice-glazed road. She tried frantically to straighten the speeding car; she moved the steering wheel counter to how the car was sliding then back again. With panic in her blue eyes she moved the wheel again, a scream rising to her lips when the car slammed into a tree. Her scream died a few moments later; the only sound for the next few minutes was the wind howling in the naked trees. It was so silent you could hear the snow falling.

The grocery bag that lay on the passenger seat spilled its colorful contents around. Some things flew from the shattered window onto the snow-covered field. A torn bread package attracted a murder of crows; screeching, they attacked each other for prey. One big crow took in its beak a small green baby shoe, tearing it apart and tossing it around. The second shoe, covered in ketchup from a nearby opened bottle, was left ignored. The bird flew away when a blast of cold wind blew around, causing the surrounding trees to lose some of the snow covering them.

He woke up groggy and cold; his eyelids fluttered, and brown eyes moved in the darkness. A howl of wind passed through a broken window, making him shiver.

"Mommy?" he called softly. His vision cleared a little; it was almost dark—the last rays of sun in the air were giving enough light to scare the boy. The shadows grew, the trees growing bigger, the fields darker. He shivered again and moved his head slightly, stopping when a painful jolt ran through it. He closed his eyes to try to stop the nausea; he moved his arms then his legs slightly, instinctively checking if everything was okay. It wasn't: his right leg was trapped between the seat and whatever was left of the door. Before opening his eyes again he moved his head to what he was hoping was a position where he could see the driver's seat. He opened his eyes and squinted in the growing darkness to seek his mother.

"Mom?" he called again, this time a little bit louder. He couldn't see her: it was too dark. The car lights had died and he was trapped without any idea what happened. He took a deep breath and tried again, fear pumping his little body full of adrenalin, allowing him to forget about the pain when panic set in.

"Mommy!" he screamed at the top of his lungs. Tears started to run over his cheeks as he called again and again into the darkness, till his voice was hoarse from screaming. He was losing consciousness when he finally saw some lights on the road; the blue and red lights danced behind his eyelids when he murmured his last word, "Mommy?"

* * *

><p>Simon Burke sat in the gray hospital corridor with a crestfallen look on his face. His wife and son had been brought into the emergency room two hours ago, and he still hadn't heard anything from the doctors. It was late afternoon when a police patrol found the car wrapped around a tree only ten miles from home. He wasn't expecting them home for another two hours, so was surprised by the knock on the door. When he opened it and saw the police uniforms he almost had a heart attack. They were kind and careful while explaining the situation; nevertheless the shock still hadn't worn off. He suspected it wouldn't wear off at all, but the doctor took a look at him, put a hot coffee into his hands and told him to sit and wait for the news. It was the only thing he could do, this or call the family. He opted not to, as he wasn't sure what to tell them; just calling to say Margaret and Peter had been in a car accident and not being able to say if everything was all right didn't suit him. He wanted to be able to tell them what would happen next; right now he wasn't sure.<p>

He sipped the now-cold coffee and shifted a little to change position, his back hurting from sitting on the uncomfortable chair too long. The chair squeaked and he winced both from the sound and the cold of the coffee he'd just drunk. He threw away the cup with the remaining liquid and chose to stretch a little; no one was able to tell him how long it would take to get some news. The only information he'd gotten was that both Peter and his wife were currently in surgery.

Then the doors marked 'Staff Only' opened and a doctor in scrubs came out; he looked tired. Quickly scanning the corridor, his eyes landed on Simon; he nodded slightly.

"Doctor?"

"Are you family of the Burkes?"

"Yes, yes, my son and my wife: what's happening with them?"

The doctor steered him along to a private room to share the news. Simon's heart fell a little with fear; he'd heard about this solitary room—it was where families were given bad news.

"Please sit down. What have you been told about your family's injuries?" the doctor asked gently.

"Nothing." Simon shook his head.

"Let me start with your son as we just finished working on his leg. Besides leg injuries he also hit his head and we're going to keep him sedated till we are more sure that the brain swelling is down; it's not dangerous for him but we want to be careful. Peter's right leg was broken in a couple places below his knee. For now we installed screws that will help to keep the pieces of the bone together and we'll monitor it closely. It's a spiral fracture; the good news is it was a stable break, the bad news is that with all the other breaks he will spend the next six to eight weeks in traction. We will need to get him back into the operating room at least one more time to remove some of the screws, and then he will need to follow with physical therapy to recover full use of his leg..." He trailed off, taking a pause before delivering the rest of the news.

Simon finally felt relieved: the first news was good news, although he understood only that his boy's leg was broken in few places, but it allowed his fear to subside and him to relax. When the doctor paused, the anxiety returned.

"What about Margaret?" he asked with hope.

The look in the doctor's eyes told him that this time the news would not be so positive.

"The second team of surgeons is still working on your wife, Mr. Burke. She was unconscious when brought in, and besides a knock on the head we didn't suspect any other injuries. Only after further examination did we start to suspect an issue with her spleen..." He took a deep breath. "Did you know your wife was pregnant?" he asked gently.

The doctor's words stunned Simon. Pregnant, it couldn't be. After Peter was born, the doctors said that due to complications it was unlikely that they would have more children. They tried, of course, for the next two years, but when nothing happened they simply came to terms with the diagnosis. It hurt when four-year-old Peter, upon seeing his newborn cousin, asked when he would have a little brother. They explained to him gently that it's not always mommy and daddy's decision alone; God would have to bless them, and for now they were blessed with Peter and were happy. It seemed a good explanation, as Peter each night during his prayer asked to bless mommy and daddy with a little brother for him. The tears swelled in his eyes: a baby.

"No … we ... I..." he shook his head, unable to say another word.

The doctor squeezed his arm. "I'm sorry, but we were unable to save the baby. She was around ten weeks; maybe didn't know it herself yet." He added with sympathy, "But we are still working on saving her; there is still hope." The doctor stood up. "I'll come back as soon as I have more news for you. If you would like to visit your son, you'll be able to in a few hours, after we move him from post-op. I'll ask a nurse to lead you to him."

Simon nodded, still unable to say a word. Now he was grateful for the private room. Here he didn't have to be the closed-off, sometimes hard man; here he could weep for his unborn child.

* * *

><p>When he woke up again, the first thing he registered was the smell, like the bathroom after Mom cleaned it up for the grandparents' visit. He smiled slightly; the smell was familiar and comforting—he always smelled it from his room. Without opening his eyes he tried to curl up under his blanket to snuggle for a moment longer.<p>

_It was Saturday and mom would be in his room soon trying to wake him up. Their weekend wake-up game._

_Peter heard the door scraping on carpet. She was there. He smiled slightly. The first step: she stopped by the bed legs; he saw his mom smiling from under his eyelashes._

"_Peter Pan…" she called softly "Wake up, Peter Pan." She squeezed his foot slightly._

_He almost cracked; he loved that nickname. The next step was the window: opening the drapes, she let the sun in. This time she didn't try to be silent,__ when she sat on the bed and messed with his hair._

"_Oh look, Peter Pan, I found your shadow…" she called with false surprise, looking over his shoulder. _

_He smiled widely; opening his eyes fully, he moved his arms to hug her.…_

He woke up. He moved his arm, and the moment he tried to move his leg his eyes snapped open. He wasn't at home, the blinds were already opened, and the sun was brightly shining directly in his eyes. He averted his head to look at the leg: it was immobilized in a strange-looking combination of cloth, rollers and cables—heavily bandaged. He started to move around in panic. His movement must have drawn attention, as a moment later his father came into his view and pulled him into his arms.

"Peter!" His voice was relieved, but it did nothing to ease his anxiety. "Son, calm down, everything will be all right." He ran his hands over his back, trying to soothe him, still hugging him tightly. "It'll all be okay, all okay." He repeated it over and over, as if trying to believe what he was saying himself. A few minutes later he felt the small body in his arms go limp again and he lowered his son to the bed carefully. The boy looked exhausted, the white bandage on his head adding to the impression of illness. He slowly moved the hairs away from his temple and kissed it.

"It will all be okay, Peter Pan; all will be okay, I promise."

* * *

><p>Peter woke again with the urge to run; he was still in the hospital, his right leg in a cast. He thrashed for a moment, dreaming about a free run on the fields, almost falling off the bed and the support keeping his leg up. It was the middle of the night; the hospital was almost silent. From time to time a page for a doctor sounded in the corridors, but it was muffled to tolerant levels by closed doors. The moon shone brightly today; he looked at the lonely satellite and felt tears gathering in his eyes. He would not cry, not again; he'd promised himself over a week before that he wouldn't. But the tears didn't hear his promise, didn't listen to his will, and fell slowly on his cheeks. He dried them angrily with an arm and averted his eyes from the light; there would be no witness to his weakness.<p>

His dad visited daily in the afternoons, asked how he was, promised again and again that all would be all right, that they will make it work, together. He just had to work on getting better, and as soon as the screws were gone, listen to the therapist and learn to walk again.

He didn't want to learn how to walk; he wanted to run, wanted to play baseball. But with the busted leg, the doctors weren't promising anything at all. For now he just had to wait and be patient. Another tear ran from his eye. He wanted his mom; if Mom promised that everything would be okay he would believe her. But neither Dad nor the doctors talked to him about Mom, told him only that she wasn't feeling so good and he couldn't see her now. He dried another set of tears with his sleeve. His eyes slowly took another inventory of the room that he could now draw completely with his eyes closed.

His sketch pad lay on the night table with a set of pencils and crayons. He took them and slowly started to sketch the room he was in. He didn't even notice when he fell asleep again; when he woke up the sun was shining brightly, adding a cheer to the room that was missing in the moonlight. The sketch pad was still in his lap, but instead of the usual detailed sketch, there was a surprisingly-simple drawing made of curvy lines and badly-made shadows. It looked like something he'd done when he was five; since then his mom had taught him to really draw, and he was good, really good. Many people repeated time and time again, seeing his works, that he had a very bright future as an artist. His sketches had already won a few awards at the state level, competing with kids a few years older; if he progressed, an art scholarship for whatever school he wanted would be waiting for him in a few years. He must have been tired; he had fallen asleep drawing it.

His brow furrowed after a nurse came by with breakfast; she took one look at the picture and smiled.

"It looks very nice." she complimented.

"Nice?" he asked, surprised.

"Yes, very nice picture. Why don't you draw something else for your mom? I'm sure someone could put it in her room today; that would make her feel so much better, you know?" She smiled again before leaving him alone.

He ate breakfast without an appetite, looking at the strange picture he'd drawn. After finishing the oatmeal he took the pad again and tried to create in his mind the beauty of their home's garden. If he wanted to draw something for Mom that would make her feel better, then it would be her favorite garden. The picture escaped from his mind after few seconds.

His hand moved slowly over the paper, concentrating on lines he wanted to create. But unlike all the other times, the lines didn't want to form what he needed them to be. They were awkward, curved when they should be straight, straight when they should be curved, not really bending in the angles he wanted them. He decided to not concentrate on it too much and started working on shadows, and he discovered he couldn't. He couldn't imagine the garden, nor was he able to draw it anymore.

Angry, he threw the pad at the wall, followed by the pencil. He cried again, the traitorous tears falling from his eyes without any control. This time he sobbed, devastated that he couldn't do anything that he loved anymore—no running, no baseball, no drawing.

The sun shone brightly through the windows, casting its rays over a child sitting on the bed; a shadow formed on the wall. The sketch pad and the pencil lay directly by the curled form; the shadow hand reached out and with a swift move the pad and the pencil disappeared from view. The crying child on the bed didn't notice anything at all, and when the sun moved, the shadow dissolved along with the pad and pen.

* * *

><p>"No! That's not true! I want to see Mom! NOW!" Peter was screaming; he couldn't tell any more if the tears running down his face were from fear or anger—those two emotions had been mixing with each other since his father set foot in his room that day. It was the end of March and he had only one more week before starting physical therapy for his leg. For all those weeks he'd kept asking about his mother and when he would be able to see her. The doctors kept saying "soon," and that all depended on his father; the nurses took his pictures—as bad as he thought they were—to put in his mom's room; his father kept saying it wasn't the right time.<p>

Today had shattered every belief that Peter had had in his father. The nurses had been lying, the doctors had been lying, but most importantly his dad had been lying.

Strong arms enfolded him, trying to keep him in one place before he aggravated his still-tender leg. His father's aftershave, his favorite flannel shirt, the laundry soap his mother used, all the familiar scents were there.

"Peter, Peter, calm down! Peter!"

"No! You lied! You all lied! I hate you, I don't want to see you... Go away... Leave me alone... Go away." He was in a full hysterics attack; Simon cast a terrified look at the doctor, who quickly called a nurse to bring a sedative.

The boy slowly calmed down and fell asleep in his father's arms, his small hands still clenched in fists against his father's shirt. Simon put him in bed again, allowed the doctor to check the kid's leg and then tiredly sat in the nearby chair.

"We gave him a mild sedative; he will be up in an hour or so, maybe more if the crying exhausted him enough. Simon, don't beat yourself up over that; you had to tell him sometime and now was probably the best moment."

"I know, but I can't stop thinking that I could have done it better, told him sooner or..." He trailed off, unsure what to do. The urge to tell his little boy to cowboy up, like he always did when the kid threw an unnecessary fit, was huge. On the other hand, he knew that hearing that your mother died the same night they brought her to the hospital, and then having everyone around you lying about it, would have made him upset or angry. He ran a hand over his face and hair.

"What do I do now, Doctor? How do I raise a kid on my own?" It was a question he asked himself and everyone around him who would listen. How he was supposed to do it?

* * *

><p>The bars were white with powder, keeping them slick enough to slide your hands but at the same time keep you from falling. He slowly moved his left leg forward, then with tears in his eyes, very slowly moved the right one, then tried to move the left foot forward without putting it down again.<p>

"Good, Peter, you're doing very good. Just remember, put a little bit of your weight on the right foot, just as much as you are comfortable with; put the rest on the railings, and then move your left foot." His physical therapist was very patiently coaching him through the process. It was more painful that he'd imagined; a relatively clean break of his leg had changed into a nightmare when an infection had set in. No one knew from where or how it had happened, but after one week in the drug-induced coma, and another week in bed, he was in so much pain that he was crying all the time. The doctors had to cut off the bandages, operate to clean the infected space, and pump him full of additional drugs. This time, just to be safe, they also added steel screws on the other part of the bone. It bought him two additional weeks in the hospital.

He clenched his teeth and moved his left leg, almost crying with pain; quickly putting it down, he used his hip and body balance to move the right one.

"Peter, don't use your hip like that; you have to work on your muscles."

"I know, Tony!" he cried out angrily; only one more step and he would be finished with the bars. "You repeat that every single time. I've had enough!"

"Okay, champ, come on, one more step." Tony caught the angry kid and put him in the wheelchair; he squeezed his arm and patted his head, not really concerned about his behavior. He'd heard worse things and something like that never fazed him, even if coming from an eight-year-old kid.

"See you tomorrow! We're gonna work on those muscles specifically." He smiled and let a nurse wheel him out.

The sun in the gym was already quite low, Peter being his last patient of the day. Tony started to clean up the space, putting away pillows, blankets and balls. He'd just turned around with a ball in hand when something moved in the corner of his eye; he quickly pivoted again but didn't notice anything strange. Finishing the clean-up he cast a last look at the gym and left, locking the door with a key.

On the bars' shadow a silhouette of a boy made a handstand, then lurched down and up again, gaining momentum and moving closer to the end of bars; on the last swing he curled up and jumped, doing a somersault. The door opened and Tony hurried in, going for the car keys he'd left on one of the benches; he was walking back to the door when he noticed a small black object by the bars' shadow. He came closer and picked up a pencil.

"How did that get there?" he mused aloud, putting it in his pocket. The door closed, leaving an empty room behind.

* * *

><p>Peter wasn't happy. Two weeks after leaving the hospital he still was limping. Tony, his therapist, insisted that would straighten itself out when he stopped being afraid to use his leg fully, but it hadn't happened yet. The kids at school were mean, calling him names and pushing him around at recess. He got into his first fight at the end of the second week and was not only suspended for two days, but also grounded by his father for two weeks. It certainly didn't help his behavior, the sudden panic attacks or swelling of anger, the overall mood swings.<p>

Till now he'd kept it to himself but when the bigger boy pushed him, he simply reacted, not thinking. He broke the kid's nose, and it didn't make him feel better at all; it made him feel guilty. So he accepted his punishment without comment, just an ashamed face and quiet "I'm sorry, it will never happen again" promise to his father.

Peter wasn't a child to hold a grudge, but after his father's lie about his mother he was actually avoiding him at home as much as possible. Which wasn't so difficult as he was almost never there. His aunt Helen came to help and she was the one that kept an eye on Peter most of the time. She left after two weeks, saying they had to talk to each other and solve the problem together; they had only themselves now. The first day after her departure Peter was in his first fight, but not his last.

It wasn't the first change in his behavior; another was sneaking around and stealing—something that Peter himself couldn't understand. He was a very conflicted little boy, and each time he saw something he wanted his first reaction was to turn and ask his mother to buy it for him. But each time he stopped mid-turn and only one word escaped his lips.

His mom wasn't there, not anymore. His father was too wrapped up in himself to notice that his kid was missing during the day, and ignored neighbors' offers that they could keep an eye on Peter when he wasn't home. Before the accident it wasn't a problem—Peter would stay after school, involved in sports and various clubs; sometimes he would go to a friend's house. But now, now he snuck out before anyone noticed and wandered the town alone. It wasn't a very big town, and many people knew the Burkes, so when Peter wandered into a shop they always asked where his father was, or what he was doing there alone. It was at these strange times that it was most evident how the child had changed—he lied convincingly, he stole unnoticed, he disappeared when needed.

"Helen, I don't know what to do with him anymore... Yes, I know it's a difficult time for him ... but ... Helen, no ... nothing works... Yes, I tried that too..." Peter listened carefully to the one side of the conversation his father was again having with his aunt. His dad was right: nothing he did made any impact on him. The strange thing was he knew what he was doing was wrong; he even felt guilty about it and promised time and time again to himself that he would not do it ever again ... till the next occasion. When his mind clouded, when the dark impulse came from nowhere that he couldn't control, he did it again, and again, and again.

It earned him three suspensions from school, four months of grounding in advance, and a few times when his father couldn't stop himself, a spanking. It was probably the worst of all his punishments because it hurt his pride more than his bottom, and it actually worked a little in stopping him before doing another stupid thing. Unfortunately it only worked for a minute or two; when the strange tugging in his mind to do something got stronger each time he tried to stop himself, he failed.

After another three months he was still limping; sometimes it was even worse than the first week just after the hospital. He was now a troublemaker—always sneaking around, leaving school whenever he wanted, stealing and lying. People would say he'd changed, and nod sadly, adding that it's all because of the accident, and his father not keeping enough of an eye on him. Some would whisper, unaware—or simply not caring that he could still hear them—that social services should have taken him away as soon as possible. It scared him at first, but then he was still mad at his father and shrugged the feeling away—so what if they took him.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N that author completely forgot**

**Part One - Peter**

**Warnings: AU**

**Disclaimer: White Collar belongs to USA Network and Jeff Eastin, I'm just borrowing them for a short time...**

**Many thanks for mam711 - who spend lot's of time correcting my errors and ensuring that the story flows much better.**

* * *

><p><strong>June 1972 - Ithaca, NY<strong>

The carnival trucks rolled through the city at late afternoon. The colorful trucks carried pieces of rides, concession stands and homes; some were followed by that freshly-popped popcorn smell. The kids already out of school ran behind the trucks, whooping and shouting happily. School would be out in a day and the carnival in town meant it was vacation time.

Peter followed the trucks with his eyes, his mind clearly not on the math problem currently on the board. His right leg twitched slightly, still acting up all these months after the accident; he moved it slightly and bent it to change the position. He was still visiting the hospital every other week for some more physical therapy. It worked for a while, then everything went back to the same stage. He sighed and directed his attention back to the notes; the math was easy—he was already halfway through the tasks listed on the board. He cast a careful look at the nearest student's page: he was still on the first problem. He could feel the anxiety rising, this strange feeling he associated with all his current problems in life. Quickly solving the rest of the problems, he gave his test back to the teacher and asked for a bathroom pass.

With the pink slip in his hand he ran, as quickly as his still-throbbing and slowing-him-down leg allowed. It was his last period; he took a quick stop at his locker, thankful it was on the same floor as the exit doors, and snuck out before anyone noticed him gone.

He followed the trucks to get a better look at the fields they would occupy. It was actually the same spot they took over year after year. His father once told him that he actually proposed at the top of the Ferris wheel at the same carnival ten years prior, and it was set up in the same place. He was lucky—their house wasn't very far away from the field; he stashed his backpack under a bush, carefully looking around that none of the neighbors were looking. Then he took off to look at the work.

The field was full of vehicles set in three circles: the built-in concession trucks in the center, followed by a ring of caravans and separate trailers, with last row being the big transport trucks; they left just enough space to create an entrance alley. He found a tree close to a inner ring and climbed it, wincing with pain. Now he had the best view of the setting up. They actually didn't start with unpacking—the first thing they did was sit together and eat. Peter's stomach grumbled, reminding him that he hadn't eaten his own lunch and it wouldn't be a bad idea to go home and eat something. He ignored it, remembering the unexpected disgust he'd felt upon unpacking his lunch—it was his favorite deviled ham sandwich, but he couldn't get himself to eat it today.

The unpacking finally started—the tents, booths, and then the smaller tents with wooden stages, and the various attractions started to grow. The last thing he saw that day was the entry sign made out of white lightbulbs being put up and lit—showing everyone interested where exactly the carnival was waiting for them to come.

He was slowly coming down the tree when a shout scared him and he lost his footing, falling down the last three feet.

"Hey, you!" he heard again, as he slowly opened his eyes. That had hurt.

"Kid? You okay?" The blonde-haired person with green eyes was looking at him curiously. The girl took his hand and put him on his legs again.

He nodded, not able to say a word.

"Well then, good; I wouldn't want to be responsible for you breaking your neck." She smiled widely, showing yellow teeth with one distinct brown gap. At first glance Peter could tell she was only a few years older than him, like the neighbor's daughter Lisa who was a freshman in high school. But after she smiled, he wasn't so sure anymore; only older people had problems with their teeth, right?

She regarded him for a moment before turning him in the direction of the city and pushing slightly. "Now scat; we open tomorrow evening. You can come by then if you have a dollar or two. Take off, kid." This time when she smiled, her teeth were white and neat, and it was so inviting.…

He stumbled and limped away, every few steps looking over his shoulder, checking on the girl. She still stood in the same place, each time he looked back, making a shooing move with her hand. Well, he was going home anyway.

* * *

><p>The evening was brisk; the mass of people going in the direction of the colorful sign at the entrance to the carnival didn't seem to mind. He wrapped the jacket around himself, strolling behind a couple that he could pass off as his older sibling with a girlfriend if trouble found him, as it always did lately.<p>

Last evening, he'd tested out his sneaking abilities. The fake body in the bed seemed to work flawlessly as his father didn't even comment at the breakfast table. If he'd paid more attention, he might have noticed the concerned look in his father's eyes, or the way he eyed the phone, as if recalling a conversation with someone over it. He quickly ate breakfast and without looking back called goodbye to his father and ran for the school bus. It was the last day of school, luckily, as the teachers and students were too excited about next few weeks of freedom to actually bother with him. The math teacher just gave him his worksheet back with an additional note, "don't sneak out again, even if you deserve an A for the problems", and let it be. The school bullies found some girls to torment and left him alone. Suddenly school was done and a crowd of kids ran from the building screaming with joy.

As he planned to sneak later to the carnival, he decided to actually play the role of good kid and go home straight from school. He was almost at the screen door when via the open kitchen window he heard his father on the phone.

"No, Helen, I didn't tell him yet... What do you think he'll do...? He's eight years old; he doesn't get to decide this... No... I know but he ran before I could tell him... Yes... As soon as he's back... Yeah, see you tomorrow; thanks."

He stood there listening, trying to put together the conversation; what were they talking about? Were they going on vacation to visit Aunt Helen tomorrow? It was like a hundred hours' drive and his mom usually told him at least two weeks before; he loved going to his aunt. Although after two weeks he was at war with his cousins and moped around till his mom decided it was time to go home, usually a day or two later. He almost had the doorknob turned when something stopped him. There was this strange feeling that something wasn't as it should be, that something would change. He shook his head and entered the house; it was time to give his father a chance to explain himself.

"Dad! I'm home!" he called with a cheerfulness he didn't feel.

"Peter!" Simon called, surprised, his hand still on the phone. He nervously wiped his hands on his jeans and gestured for the boy to come closer.

"Come on, sit; I have something to tell you." He moved nervously around, taking two glasses out of the cabinet and filling them with juice. He set one before Peter and then quickly drank his.

"Dad?" Peter asked, the tense situation getting to him.

His shadow flickered, unnoticed by the kitchen occupants. One arm moved slowly to tug on its own leg, the right seemed to divide itself from Peter's right heel without problem, but when it tugged on the left one it didn't even stir.

"We're moving to Aunt Helen's tomorrow." There, he'd said it.

The shadow stilled, both of its hands on the left leg, the head rising slowly, looking with interest over the shoulder to the older man.

"What do you mean, moving?" Peter's mind went blank, moving? "We aren't even packed. We can't move, we can't leave Mom!"

The older Burke ran his hand over his hair, messing it up. "Peter, look around you. Most things are already packed. I only left behind a little of your stuff. The furniture will be sold; we don't need it at Helen's place."

Peter finally really looked around at the kitchen and through the open door to the living room. For the past few weeks he'd rarely been home, mostly wandering around town and coming back after dark. He hadn't paid attention to what was going on in the house; he'd run away in the mornings without looking back. But now he could see empty shelves, packed cartons, everything ready.

"But..."

Simon knelt before him, grabbing his son's arms. "I allowed this situation to go too far; I'm sorry, but it's either this or Social Services. And I don't want to lose you, Peter; whatever is going on with you, we can solve it. The first thing is to change the environment, so we are going to move away and start fresh. I have a job lined up with a construction company, and you'll have some time to get used to the change before starting a new school." He looked Peter directly in the eyes. "We're gonna make it work, but you have to work with me, buddy." He saw an unfamiliar flicker in the boy's eyes.

Peter was terrified: move away from the only house he knew? From all the memories of his mom? The town he grew up in? And to a never-land of his aunt's farm? That would be a disaster; what had his father been thinking? Annoyance grew in him, followed by anger.

His shadow straightened itself, leaving off the attempt of freeing its leg. The hands moved in a threatening manner.

"No!" Peter shouted, getting away from his father's arms. "I won't go away! I want to stay here!"

Simon's own temper flared; he caught Peter's arm and without thinking smacked the boy's bottom. It seemed to fuel the kid's odd behavior; he tore his arm out of his father's grip and without another word fled through the door.

And that was how he ended up first lurking around the town, then hiding in his treehouse while his father was away searching, and then following the teenage pair out to the carnival. In all the drama he'd forgotten a very important date. Tomorrow was his ninth birthday.

* * *

><p>The carnival lights swirled around, trying to draw attention to all the possible attractions. There were magic tricks, extremely bendy people, a shooting range, a carousel, sweets stands and so many more that Peter's eyes couldn't stay long in one spot. He moved limping from one tent to another, stretching his neck trying to see what was going on inside and if it was worth his money to see. After one and half an hours, when he'd spent almost half of his money already, his throbbing leg forced him to slow down and sit. It wasn't the usual muscle spasm, it was the familiar tingling that caused him to stop. His mind started to be clouded, his emotions running high, and then he saw her. The girl that had chased him away yesterday: she stood by a fortuneteller's tent. The long blonde hair was now let loose and cascaded down her back; it almost reached her waist. She was smiling to all comers, chatting and inviting them in; today her smile was brilliantly white.<p>

He looked at her, mesmerized; she was so different from yesterday. His lips curled in a smile; he would talk to her, right now. The throbbing in his leg suddenly disappeared, and he walked swiftly towards the tent. He was almost there when he saw his father only a few feet away. He quickly ducked into the nearest alley, hiding behind people and trucks for cover. Sneaking past the back entrance to the fortuneteller's tent he saw another interesting thing. The candied apple vendor was only a few steps ahead, and his cart had been left untended. He was two feet away from it when a strange tingling sensation on his neck stopped him mid-step.

"What do you think you're doing, boy?" the old, slightly-creaky voice asked.

There it was again: the hair on his neck stood up, his stomach clenched; something was wrong.

"That's not an answer, you're not supposed to be here..." There'd been no answer to the first question, so what was going on? Peter took a step back and turned around.

At the entrance to the soothsayer's tent stood an old woman; she had black hair mostly hidden under a colorful scarf, and her blouse was crispy white with red ornaments. The skirt was black with a colorful floral pattern, and she was barefoot. The bracelets on her hand jingled when she shook a dark form she was holding with her hand.

Peter stilled; she was grabbing onto the shadow of a person, holding it by the collar of its tee-shirt. And when he looked closely at it he noticed with even more surprise that it was his shadow, which held an apple on a stick in one hand. He dropped his gaze, surprised, to check his own hand but it was empty.

"What...?" he tried to ask, but when her black eyes were directed at him he tried to take a step back out of fear and discovered he couldn't. The panic should have set in then; he knew it should. Every time he'd been caught stealing, or sneaking around places he shouldn't be, it always ended in panic. It was a familiar feeling now, just like the anger that rose each time he didn't like the world, and decided to set it his way. But not this time; this time he froze, the only feeling still within him being fear.

The lady shook the gray shade in her hand again. "Do you see what you did?"

Then, as if the shadow being moved by someone else wasn't enough of a surprise, it moved on its own. Peter could almost hear soft sounds coming from where he could imagine lips; the hands moved fast in gestures he couldn't comprehend.

Back in the city, on the dark and empty streets wind howled, moving the garbage around. On the city hall's clock tower the small and big hands of the clock slid into the same position. It was midnight.

"Come with me." Still with the shadow boy in hand she turned and directed her steps into the tent. Peter felt the tugging on his legs; it was again the familiar feeling: when he didn't want to do something and his feelings took control of him. The tugging grew almost impossible to ignore.

"Are you coming, Peter?" he heard, and his legs moved on their own.

She sat in a comfortable-looking chair by a small round table with a glass ball on it, a very typical setting for someone convincing you that they could tell the future. That would tell you everything you wanted to hear and empty your wallet at the same time. Peter cast a curious look around, searching this time for his shadow; when he didn't notice it he stopped in the middle of the tent.

She sent him an understanding look and pointed with a finger behind his back. When he looked past his shoulder he could see the shadow back where it belonged, but not looking exactly how it should look. The shadow looked straight forward and waved at him, causing him to jump a little; he quickly turned his head back and sat hesitantly on a chair beside the woman.

Peter didn't know what to expect but what happened next was even more surprising. The woman took a long look at him, swiftly making him uncomfortable in the seat, but he couldn't stop looking at her. There was something mesmerizing in her look that made him forget everything but her eyes.

Peter's eyes closed slowly as if he had fallen asleep; the sight of the diviner was hypnotic. The old lady rose from her seat and, slowly brushing hair from his brow, she whispered spells in a foreign language, drawing invisible symbols on his forehead. Finishing, she kissed his temple and murmured directly into his ear again.

"Sleep, Peter Burke, sleep. When you wake the world will be in order once again. I can't fix everything that happened, but I will take your shadow and your burdens, thus allowing you to grow up before you have to face them again," she whispered into his ear. "Remember this: your shadow pushed you to choose a side, a decision you are not ready to make, because it's man's decision, not a boy's one. When you grow up, your decisions will lead you back and you can have your shadow back."

The boy's shade flickered on the chair where it sat, hands moving in panicked gestures. The woman's hand smacked him on the head. "Calm down; I will get to you next."

She stroked Peter's head again. "Remember, your decisions will shape your life; make them wisely." She snapped her fingers and the young girl that chatted to people in the front came in.

"Tamara, call Noah and tell him to come here and take the boy outside the camp; someone will find him in the morning."

The girl just nodded and ran out of the tent without another glance.

The soothsayer sat on her chair again, took a long sip of her tea and stared wordlessly on the boy sleeping on the chair. "Sleep well, Peter Burke, choose well." She sat without a sound till a big man came in and took Peter away, careful not to wake him up.

When everyone else left she concentrated again on the shadow of the boy that still sat in the chair opposite her. Her hand shook when she took the glass ball in hand and concentrated on looking into the shadow world. It wasn't as easy as catching the shadow and containing it in one place. Now she had to really sever the connection between the boy and his shade.

The gray mass in the glass sphere flickered and started taking the shape of the boy. The shadow on the chair flickered again and again; the hands moved, trying to convey a message. She ignored him, knowing well the tricks of darken folk—it was better not to trust them. The muffled voice was now easier to hear—he was pleading to be let back to the boy. She concentrated more and saw the weak spot that could be used to finally separate the two.

She took a silver knife and first cut her own hand, allowing blood to coat the blade. Then, murmuring an old spell, she grabbed the shade's right leg and cut just by the heel. Blinding light shone for a second from the cut then closed up, creating a slightly darker line. Now she could hear the howling of the wind mixed with the shadow's cries. There was no time to stop now—she caught the left leg and did the same. This time the light was muted and she had to make another cut before the golden light coming from the cut blinded her.

The howling of the wind stilled, but she could still hear a child's scream. When she opened her eyes, on the chair by her table sat a boy with blue eyes and fair skin, dark hair mussed by the wind, his face terrified when his shape changed from those of a boy into shadow and back again.

Her eyes widened in surprise and her hand shot into her pocket to grab a simple twine. She quickly wrapped it around the boy's left ankle, murmuring charms and spells, a colorful rainbow of sparks shooting around her hand and the cord with each word. The boy stopped changing and was a shadow again when she finished; wiping perspiration from her forehead she wrapped the other end around her wrist.

She sat, tired, at the table and took another look into her glass ball. The previous shadows cleared and now she could see the future, but what she saw was not what she expected to see. Her brows furrowed and she took a sideways look at the shade on the chair again.

"You are not an average shadow child, are you?"

The shadow shook his head.

"What's your name, child?" she asked with false gentleness.

The shadow flickered into the boy again; he seized her with a look beyond his years—he knew well not to give up a name—then he was shadow again.

"I'm not letting you go; you are too valuable." Her voice lowered to whisper, "Holding secrets and powers that I.…"

The shadow seemed to listen even to her whispers, then he spoke, but only she could hear the answer. Her eyes widened with surprise again, and the shadow just shrugged.

"Impossible..." she murmured carefully, then straightened herself, continuing, "The curse I put on the boy will make him come back if he makes the correct decisions; you will be free when he sets you free—he is the only one now that can. Mark my words, whatever you do, he and I will be able to find you, so don't try to run."

The shadow protested visibly but she ignored him, standing up and starting to walk toward her trailer. The cord on her hand dragged him like a doll behind her; at the van she put the cord beside another one on an iron handle at the back of the car. The shadows of two people flickered, welcoming the new addition.

When she leaves he is standing in the middle, his hands in invisible pockets, slowly swinging on the balls of his feet.

* * *

><p>For the second time in six months he woke up disoriented and not where he expected. He was at the hospital again, this time with only a few wires attached, and fully mobile. The dawn light was seeping through the windows; his father's slumped form was visible on a nearby chair. He was snoring softly, his chin was covered in stubble and he looked tired and old.<p>

Peter looked at him, wondering was he the reason his dad looked so bad? The feelings he'd gotten accustomed to in the last months were suddenly absent. He scratched his ear in silent wonder; what had happened? He remembered running away from home after dad told him they were moving away to Aunt Helen's, but then... His brows came together as he thought; it didn't make sense, he couldn't remember.

"Peter?" The voice calling him was quiet, then a little bit louder. He hadn't noticed his father waking up and sitting on his bed. He looked at the tired man and all he could feel was sadness and guilt; he wrapped his arms about his father's neck, allowing tears to fall.

Simon hugged his son tightly, worry for his child finally subsiding. The boy was finally awake and seemed much better than in the past months. Whatever had happened, he was grateful the child was unhurt.

When he'd found Peter on the edge of the carnival field, the boy was unconscious, his body limp and unresponsive. He took him to the hospital and spent two days by his side while doctors ran every test they could imagine, trying to determine what had happened. In the end they didn't find anything, declared Peter in a coma, and told him to be ready: that if the boy didn't wake up in next few days, he may never.

"You missed your birthday. Happy birthday, Peter Pan. Happy birthday, son," he was murmuring. He was happy they were wrong.

The night at the carnival seemed to change Peter back into the lovely and happy child he was before the accident. He helped pack the rest of the house and sell whatever they didn't take with them in a garage sale. He even dragged his father to the cemetery to say goodbye to his mother, promising they would come see her from time to time. It was like now, he couldn't wait to leave, instead of dragging his heels like before.

Simon was glad; the last six months had at first been a nightmare then a constant emotional roller coaster. He knew raising a child on his own would not be easy, but now he had more hope that he would be successful. They were starting fresh in a new place with some old friends nearby. The future looked promising.

**_End of Part One_**


	3. Chapter 3

**1986 - Boston, MA**

The wind knocked trash around the street, causing tree branches to bend under its power. The street was dark and gloomy in the snow that covered the city in the late afternoon; quite usual weather for the beginning of December.

He was almost sure it was a dream, almost. There were small differences: the constant feeling of unreality, the knowledge that he'd been in his bed a few minutes ago, or that it was December when he fell asleep. But 'almost' wasn't really convincing, not when you felt goosebumps on your skin and the wind in your hair. The air was hot and humid, making it difficult to breathe, making the jeans and t-shirt he suddenly was wearing cling to his body.

He took a careful look around; he stood in the middle of a tent village, with trucks and trailer cars nearby and carnival music playing in the background. It was eerily familiar, but he couldn't remember the exact place; it had been years since he last visited a carnival.

Someone shouted somewhere; a couple of kids ran past him screaming; an older man brushed his arm while walking by. Something flashed in the corner of his eye; turning his head he noticed lightning on the horizon, the dark clouds still far away. He finally moved to explore the strange setting he found himself in.

The tents held various attractions, from super-elastic twins to a snake man to a booth with a shooting range; it was more like an old-fashioned carnival with lots of mysterious people than the funfairs he'd visited since he'd been a child. He bought a candied apple and was taking his first bite when he saw it: the fortuneteller tent; in front, a beautiful blonde girl was flashing an amazing smile at everyone that passed by. It was almost blinding, rows of neat white teeth, the corner of her mouth turned up at just the right angle; it was a smile that held promise. People responded to it like flies to flame; they were drawn to it, ready to spend ridiculous amounts of money to hear a bunch of lies.

Peter was mesmerized by the smile and took a step forward, then another and another; the girl sent a smile his way and he automatically smiled back. In a blink of an eye he found himself sitting at a round table with a dark red cloth and a crystal ball. The old woman was murmuring something he couldn't understand, her brown eyes concentrated on his palm in her hands. A feeling of dread he hadn't been feeling before started to rise, bile in his throat. There was something wrong; his gut was screaming at him to run away, and he'd learned to trust his gut over the years. He tried to jerk his hand away but the woman wouldn't budge. The murmuring grew louder and louder, changing into a monotone chant.

He stood quickly, sending his chair to hit the floor, his panicked eyes sweeping the inside to find something to help him. It was then, when the chanting grew a notch louder, that he heard thunder; the lighting stroke came a moment later, and in the entrance he saw the shadow of a boy. He stilled; there was something familiar in this shadow: he was racking his mind trying to find the memory when another crash of thunder broke the chant. Not even a second later another lightning bolt hit; this time the shadow in the entrance was waving a hand at him. The soothsayer was still chanting with his palm stuck in her hands; the words started to blur into one steady sound; the rumble following the strike came almost immediately after the light. Something inside Peter started to squeeze his heart; the pain grew with every second. When the next lightning bolt hit he found himself on his knees from pain. The shadow of the boy disappeared when his mouth opened and he started screaming.

"Noooo..."

The roar of the thunderstorm drowned his next words and the chanting stopped. The pain grew again, bending him in half, squeezing tears out of his eyes.

"Noo, let us go. Please let us go!" he begged, not really sure what he was asking for.

Nothing counted, no conscious thought floated in his mind, just a deep unknown force that made him say the words. The chanting started again, this time going from loud to murmuring in matter of seconds, while the pain grew again. He was way beyond the point of consciousness though his lips were still forming the pleading words.

"Please, let him go..."

The lighting hit the tent and everything was blinding white for a second.

"Peter! Peter! Wake up!" Someone shook his arm. "Come on, wake up, you're scaring me..." The voice was soft and familiar.

He slowly opened his eyes in the faint darkness to find himself back in his bedroom.

"Peter?" the voice was back.

He turned his head and there she was: a blonde, gorgeous girl with a killer white smile; he smiled.

"Yeah?" His throat was surprisingly dry.

"You were screaming in your sleep; are you okay?"

He cleared his throat, blinked few times, and hugged the girl. "Yeah, just a bad dream; don't worry."

"You sure everything is okay?" she asked doubtfully. "You were screaming."

He tried to roll onto his side to hug her closer when a sharp pain ran through his chest. Something wasn't right: his leg was throbbing and his whole body felt like an army of ants were marching on him.

"Cathy?" he called softly, unsure, "What did I scream about?"

"You were calling to someone to let him go. Peter, what's it about?" The green eyes of his girlfriend were filled with worry.

The pain slowly subsided and the ants disappeared. He kissed his girlfriend and hugged her to his body, lying back on his side.

"Will you go with me to visit my dad this weekend?" he asked after a minute of silence. The only answer was a sleepy "uhuhm" coming somewhere from his chest area where her head was resting.

Somewhere in Pennsylvania a thunderstorm rolled over a gathering of tents and trucks; anyone who was awake stared at the skies in wonder. December wasn't a time for thunderstorms. The carnival had arrived in the city only a day before and would not stay long; they never did. By the fortuneteller's trailer a boy's shadow flickered on the back of the car with each stroke of lightning. The chanting grew till it was almost in synch with the lightning and thunder. A painful scream cut through when lightning hit the fortuneteller's tent. The shadow flickered again and disappeared.

Under the van an unconscious boy was curled under an old blanket, shivering in the cold that the storm had brought.

* * *

><p><strong>1986 - Ithaca, NY<strong>

It was the last day that the carnival would be in the city. Peter made plans, stuffed his pockets with his battered wallet and a small green box, and dragged Cathy by the hand to the field. He couldn't remember when the last time was that he'd visited a carnival; it must have been before they moved to Aunt Helen's. Especially as they came to town only twice a year, in June and December.

They had lots of fun at the shooting range, then bumping into each other in the bumper cars. They were almost by his ultimate goal for that day—the Ferris wheel—when Cathy decided to have something sweet to eat. They were standing in a small line for the sweets vendor when he felt the hair on his neck start to rise. It wasn't a good sign; he tentatively looked around and spotted a dark-haired boy staring at him near a fortuneteller's tent. He shot the kid a smile and slowly surveyed the rest of the field; when his eyes came back to the tent the boy was gone. Cathy was in the middle of paying when he felt a slight tugging at his right sleeve. Surprised, he looked down straight into the blue eyes of the dark-haired boy he'd seen a minute ago. The kid looked like a scrawny teenager before hitting his first growth spurt.

"Hi," he murmured, smiling; not really comfortable.

The kid just kept looking at him without a word.

"Peter!" His head snapped up at the sound of Cathy's voice; she was nearing him with a box of popcorn and a candied apple in one hand, and two cans of soda in the other. He was stretching out his own hand to help her when he felt the tugging again.

"Who's your friend?" Cathy asked, also smiling down to the kid. She loved children, and hoped for at least three of her own.

"Humpf... hey, kid, what's your name?" He directed the question to the mop of dark hair; instead of an answer he got a charming smile, showing a row of almost-blinding white teeth with a gap between the top two.

He was opening his mouth to ask again when a hand was stretched out in his direction, holding a battered brown wallet that he immediately recognized as his, followed by a whispered question, "In'ei?"

"Thank you, it must have slipped out... What's aneji?" He took the wallet from the kid's hand and quickly scanned the contents; everything seemed to be in order. Cathy, being herself, had insisted that she would pay for their snack this time, so he hadn't even noticed he'd lost it.

As he smiled at the kid again, stuffing the wallet back in his pocket, the boy cocked his head with a slight frown on his face. "In'ei? You in'ei?"

"I'm Peter, not that …" He made a round gesture with his hand. "… in'ei?" He repeated the word, unsure. Cathy bent a little to take a close look at the boy's face; she smiled. "You lose your mom, kiddo?" she asked kindly.

The kid shook his head, right before an old man of Asiatic descent showed up and started limping toward them, relying heavily on a cane and shouting something incomprehensible. The boy shot them another smile and ran away, disappearing between the tents.

The old man marched by them, shooting an annoyed look at the pair, and continued shouting, "Boy! Boy! Don't steal!"

It was almost half an hour later before Peter understood the old man's last comment; he was getting his thoughts together to propose at the top of the Ferris wheel—just like his father to his mother—and put his hand into his pocket only to find it empty. The box with the engagement ring had vanished, as had the old man and the boy he was chasing.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Several weeks later… back in Boston<strong>_

Peter sighed, squeezing the middle of his nose; the headache was growing with every minute.

"Dad, I made my decision," he repeated.

"Peter, listen to yourself. A cop? You, the math wiz? What about grad school?"

"Dad…" the pounding in his head increased. "I didn't get the scholarship…"

"It's not the end of the world, right? You can try to get another one, some other school."

"No, Dad. I can't; it's too late. I'm already in."

_**TBC**_


End file.
